Broidered with gold, the Blue; Under the sod and the dew, When they laurel the graves of our dead. FRANCIS MILES FINCH. THE TOURNAMENT. I. LISTS all white and blue in the skies; To the Tournament under the ladies' eyes II. Blow, herald, blow! There entered Heart, A youth in crimson and gold. Blow, herald, blow! Brain stood apart, III. Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round, But Brain sat still, with never a sound-~ IV. Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three V. Blow, herald, blow! Heart shot a glance But Brain looked straight a-front, his lance VI. They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled; Brain rose again, ungloved; Heart fainting smiled, and softly said, "My love to my Beloved!" Heart and Brain! no more be twain; SIDNEY LANIER. |